I.
The heights of Atalaya seem so far
Away from this cold room in which I sit,
Like some elusive, twinkling northern star
Beneath whose distant, silver light I’m lit.
I’m stuck within this box, four white-washed walls
Which I have found the nerve to call my home,
But the enchantment of the mountains calls
And bids me leave my room, and start to roam
Across the ponderosa dotted slopes
And over hidden outcroppings of rock,
In search of nature’s wonders. ‘Tis my hope
To leave these walls, and take off on a walk!
But I must sit here, gloomy in my room
Just like an age-old corpse, stuck in his tomb.
II.
The stars are shining brightly overhead,
Our neighbors in the cosmos, I might add.
There are some men who feel a sense of dread
To look on them; to me it is quite mad!
The light that reaches my eye here tonight
Is millions, even billions of years old –
These unimaginable lengths could cause one fright,
The thought of drifting through the empty cold.
Fear not, my friends! For you are like the stars,
A single point in boundless empty space,
You are the Universe as much as Mars,
Just doing what you’re doing, with such grace!
We’re just like shooting stars that soon will fade,
But that’s the very point – don’t feel dismayed!
III.
The tumbling of the creek is such a joy,
To sit and ponder on a mountain stroll,
My love for it will surely never cloy,
Not while it maintains such a pleasant roll
And tumble, over rocks and fallen sticks,
Progressing through this wooded canyon. I
Will sit and ask it dharma questions which
It answers more profoundly than the sly
And clever answers that I hear from men,
Who fumble with creations known as words
When trying to speak the true essence of Zen,
More eloquently spoken by the birds.
To hear the teaching of a mossy stone,
Will open up the depths of the unknown.
Monday, May 28, 2012
1133
The blank page has become an enemy,
Such a long absence has there been between
My busy, fledging mind and its bare skin,
Its mighty power held in nothingness.
The chance to scribble any verse or phrase
Lies in my fingers, and its pulpy veins.
Oh emotions! Upwellings of my soul!
What are you? From whence have you sprung?
If I am what I perceive that I am,
Which I have full confidence in,
And that is one miniscule and bumbling
Arrogant manifestation of Man,
Placed here among these hills, inside these
White and sickening walls, beneath the pale
And toxic florescent light, alone in my bedroom
As the night grows young, and the stars
One by one
Peek their silvery crowns forth from
Beneath the sea of murky jet,
So many millions of light years away,
What are my emotions to cause me
Such distress?
The scent of freshly dampened sage is lovely,
There’s little more pleasing to my nostrils
Than this fresh and wild smell. The first
Rain of spring fell today, and I opened
My car windows to smell it
But the water got in and clung to the leather interior.
I sip on cold green tea, and
Hear the sound of my nervous
Fingers picking away at one another.
I love to live, but cannot stand the rest.
Oh, what is worse than a man with
Too much time to think? Tell me,
Who is more miserable?
What is more dangerous: the knife
In its sheath, the knife in a dead man’s
Throat, or the mind of a child?
Why such anger? Why such hate?
Why such clouding of the mind?
I’m reminded by other individuals,
But I speak of myself. I’ve been taught
How to dissect a frog, the planets,
Which compounds are soluble in water
At 25° C, and how I can make gold appear
From the combination of two clear liquids –
Isn’t that the philosopher’s stone – but
Nobody taught me to look inside, to know
Myself before I tried to understand others,
To clear my mind before analyzing that
Of a friend.
I’ve driven down these same roads
For years, under the same azure sky
And choked on the same dirt which
Fills the air, and everything. That’s why
We’ve all been waiting for rain. We
Didn’t dance until afterward, though.
Why do some men dance in anticipation
And others in appreciation? Why does
dust accumulate on all my things?
Why can’t I just fall into the fractal
Of the universe, and spend an eon
In exploration, before being plopped
Back in my dusty, crowded room,
And starting the mundane routine
Once again?
Why is it so easy to recognize our
Faults in others but ignore them
In ourselves? What is a man who
Cannot acknowledge his inspiration?
Keats! Wordsworth! Neruda!
And what is a man who pays
Too much homage?
I met a woman in the mall
The day I broke things off
With my girlfriend. She sold
Me posters of blue Hindu gods
Wrapped in leopard’s skin,
And phallic rocks which lay
Between the santos and the
Crystals, and I thanked her!
We wear chemicals to mask
The scent of our own bodies
Which we have learned to hate.
If this weren’t in verse form,
Would it be considered an
Unhealthy, psychotic rant?
I’ve written myself onto the page
By tapping keys,
And all is well.
Such a long absence has there been between
My busy, fledging mind and its bare skin,
Its mighty power held in nothingness.
The chance to scribble any verse or phrase
Lies in my fingers, and its pulpy veins.
Oh emotions! Upwellings of my soul!
What are you? From whence have you sprung?
If I am what I perceive that I am,
Which I have full confidence in,
And that is one miniscule and bumbling
Arrogant manifestation of Man,
Placed here among these hills, inside these
White and sickening walls, beneath the pale
And toxic florescent light, alone in my bedroom
As the night grows young, and the stars
One by one
Peek their silvery crowns forth from
Beneath the sea of murky jet,
So many millions of light years away,
What are my emotions to cause me
Such distress?
The scent of freshly dampened sage is lovely,
There’s little more pleasing to my nostrils
Than this fresh and wild smell. The first
Rain of spring fell today, and I opened
My car windows to smell it
But the water got in and clung to the leather interior.
I sip on cold green tea, and
Hear the sound of my nervous
Fingers picking away at one another.
I love to live, but cannot stand the rest.
Oh, what is worse than a man with
Too much time to think? Tell me,
Who is more miserable?
What is more dangerous: the knife
In its sheath, the knife in a dead man’s
Throat, or the mind of a child?
Why such anger? Why such hate?
Why such clouding of the mind?
I’m reminded by other individuals,
But I speak of myself. I’ve been taught
How to dissect a frog, the planets,
Which compounds are soluble in water
At 25° C, and how I can make gold appear
From the combination of two clear liquids –
Isn’t that the philosopher’s stone – but
Nobody taught me to look inside, to know
Myself before I tried to understand others,
To clear my mind before analyzing that
Of a friend.
I’ve driven down these same roads
For years, under the same azure sky
And choked on the same dirt which
Fills the air, and everything. That’s why
We’ve all been waiting for rain. We
Didn’t dance until afterward, though.
Why do some men dance in anticipation
And others in appreciation? Why does
dust accumulate on all my things?
Why can’t I just fall into the fractal
Of the universe, and spend an eon
In exploration, before being plopped
Back in my dusty, crowded room,
And starting the mundane routine
Once again?
Why is it so easy to recognize our
Faults in others but ignore them
In ourselves? What is a man who
Cannot acknowledge his inspiration?
Keats! Wordsworth! Neruda!
And what is a man who pays
Too much homage?
I met a woman in the mall
The day I broke things off
With my girlfriend. She sold
Me posters of blue Hindu gods
Wrapped in leopard’s skin,
And phallic rocks which lay
Between the santos and the
Crystals, and I thanked her!
We wear chemicals to mask
The scent of our own bodies
Which we have learned to hate.
If this weren’t in verse form,
Would it be considered an
Unhealthy, psychotic rant?
I’ve written myself onto the page
By tapping keys,
And all is well.
W.S. Merwin and Hadrian's Poem
A few weeks ago I had the wonderful oppourtunity to see the wise poet W.S. Merwin speak and read some of his poetry. He closed by reading his translation of the Roman Emperor Hadrian's poem "Little Soul" which was so striking and haunting that the rush of mysticism and beauty his reading of it transfered to me lasts to this moment.
I've included Merwin's notes about the poem, his translation, and a link to a video of him reading it:
"It must have been at some time during my years at the university that I first encountered this brief, mysterious poem. It is ascribed to the Emperor Hadrian (76–138 AD) without any scholarly question that I know of, but it has always seemed surprising to me that a poem so assured in its art, so flawless and so haunting, could have been the only one he ever wrote. Perhaps he wrote poems all his life and this was the only one that was saved, or this one alone was unforgettable."
Start at 30:35
I've included Merwin's notes about the poem, his translation, and a link to a video of him reading it:
"It must have been at some time during my years at the university that I first encountered this brief, mysterious poem. It is ascribed to the Emperor Hadrian (76–138 AD) without any scholarly question that I know of, but it has always seemed surprising to me that a poem so assured in its art, so flawless and so haunting, could have been the only one he ever wrote. Perhaps he wrote poems all his life and this was the only one that was saved, or this one alone was unforgettable."
Little Soul
W.S. Merwin
Little soul little stray
little drifter
now where will you stay
all pale and all alone
after the way
you used to make fun of things.
Start at 30:35
If All I Had to Do Today was Write
If all I had to do today was write
About the interesting things I saw,
The hilly, mountain views that filled my sight,
I’d kiss my city-life and say au revoir.
If I could lay beneath the azure sky
And think of dialogues and poetry,
And watch the setting sun with blissful eye,
I think that then my spirit could run free.
Sometimes I think of lounging by a stream,
Aside a rocky, tumbling waterfall –
That I were there! and this were not a dream,
That sitting in my bedroom I recall,
I’d still be sunk beneath the shady firs,
Living the life a man of thought prefers.
About the interesting things I saw,
The hilly, mountain views that filled my sight,
I’d kiss my city-life and say au revoir.
If I could lay beneath the azure sky
And think of dialogues and poetry,
And watch the setting sun with blissful eye,
I think that then my spirit could run free.
Sometimes I think of lounging by a stream,
Aside a rocky, tumbling waterfall –
That I were there! and this were not a dream,
That sitting in my bedroom I recall,
I’d still be sunk beneath the shady firs,
Living the life a man of thought prefers.
A Curious Incident in India
It was hotter than usual in Delhi and we were thirsty. Rajah and I had been dispatched along with his uncle, Ashish, to procure some cold drinks to pacify the heat. We drove through the streets of I-Block, past beautiful Indian girls wrapped in scarlet saris, vendors selling skinny peeled cucumbers, and broom sellers on bicycles with vibrantly colored plastic dusters surrounding them like a plume. Soon, we arrive at the local market. I saw a Coke refrigerator out the corner of my eye as we pulled up.
“Okay boys, here is some money.” Ashish violently went through his pockets looking for a few rupees for the cold drinks. We crawled out of the maroon minivan and into the Delhi heat.
I looked back and saw Ashish, face staring intensely forward, “we will get cold drink, and then return to the house. Then, we will drink them and return to work.” Patti, Rajah and I were photographing for Ashish’s current project – writing a book about the common man of India, “aam admi” or mango people in Hindi. Ashish is elderly and suffers from bad health, especially in the lungs, but is an extremely hard worker nevertheless and he led us to numerous y different locations each day to take someone’s photograph: cobbler’s, fish sellers, garland makers to name a few.
But, now was one of our rest periods, which were spent in Ashish’s living room sipping tea and talking about any number of things with Ashish and Manju, his wife. She is a wise soul. And loving soul. Warm energy radiates through her embrace. Her knowledge of eastern religious ad philosophical beliefs is immense and fascinating to hear of speak of. Today’s toasty rest time called for cold drinks, which brings us back to the market.
The market consisted of shops of every kind, selling books, food, and things I couldn’t identify. Rajah and I ambled past a few middle aged Indian men who looked at us with that indescribable look which showed were clearly foreigners. (It isn’t as strongly pronounced as in China in Delhi.)We reached the stall and began selecting drinks: the only two Cokes they had, Thums Up (India’s cola), and mango drink (as Ashish called it). We set them on the window sill.
“Hello” the fellow manning the stall said, quickly and with that peaceful aggressiveness many Indians exhibit. He noted each of the drinks. “Three hundred, fifty.”
Rajah handed him the money. “Where are you from” he asked as he started to bag the drinks.
“United States” Rajah and I said nearly in unison.
“You are from, Kentucky?” He motioned to my fedora. I wonder if that ever happened to Indiana Jones in India. Someone mistook him for a Kentucian.
“No, New Mexico” Rajah said, taking the drinks.
“Albuquerque?” the clerk responded nonchalantly. Rajah and I immediately exchanged looks, both wide eyed at the fact that this man, at a market in New Delhi , knew the name of a city in our state.
“No, we live in Santa Fe.” Rajah said.
The response was one widely practiced by those for whom English is a second language. “Oh,” he began, staring forward with a slight look of confusion on his face. “Santa Fe.”
“The reason I asked is because my brother is currently in Albuquerque. He is working with Intel.”
The two of us responded with some phrase to show excitement, the silly things Americans say like “cool,” “Awesome,” or “wow.” We chatted with the shop keeper some moments longer, the conversation not progressing must past the point that he has a brother living in our state, so we thanked him and walked back to the minivan. We were eager to the share the story with Ashish.
How unlikely that Rajah and I should meet someone, randomly, in the backstreets of New Delhi, whose brother lived sixty miles away from our home. This helped me start to develop my attitude of not be surprised by what are called coincidences.
La Bajada
A group of cow bones lies perched on a rock downhill from where I sit. The beast has perished, all that remains of it sitting in a pile before my eyes – white, dry, cracking, bleached, dead. Yet the carvings at my feet are full of energy, life, immortality. On all sides of me are full figures – some with antennae, all that ever-watching look. The petroglyphs' lure, awe endured centuries since Spaniards and Mexicans passed on the Camino Real above me and mocassined Puebloans trotted on the scorching volcanic rocks before them. Fields stretch before me for miles, seemingly empty, barren, dull. But were I to be sitting there, countless wonders and other miniscule phenomena would greet me, just as I observe holes in the rock here – bubbles within lava which millions of years ago flowed down this very hill side, – the positioning of cholla on the purple rock, cacti with freshly ripe fruit – a sweet desert indulgence to nourish me on this blistering day. Here, the land is dry far beyond comfort and survival, yet below flows an acequia, and further the Santa Fe River.
La Bajada and Sun
There are moments in nature that will never leave my mind. They are too numerous, and too intangible to be worthily described on paper, but I will attempt to do so for the reader’s sake. It was a day late in summer, and I set out for the small town of La Bajada, its inhabitants old Hispanic families who still subsist on farming and share land with Cochiti Pueblo. I knew the location of large and detailed petroglyphs – a body with two heads, a kokopelli smoking a peace pipe, alien-like figures with antennae protruding from the head – and determined to find them after a year’s absence from visiting the spot. I hiked up the old Camino Real, heat flooding over me, the ground dusty. I found the glyphs, chipped away centuries ago on the purple, pocked lava rock but for what reason. Were these figures ceremonial, sacred sites where shamen transgressed planes of existence, or just graffiti sprawled on the rock by teenagers? With these questions in mind, I sat down to observe the dirt gathered in a ping-pong ball sized hole in the rock –over how many years had it collected? That hole was once an air bubble in the hissing molten lava, in some unimaginable time when Tetilla Peak above me was erupting. An assortment of sun bleached cow bones were perched on rock downhill from me, unmoved from the last time I visited this site, a reminder of my mortality and the immortality of these images carved into the rock. I gazed out over the open golden fields which stretched out to the horizon. How many wonders would I find myself faced with if I sat beneath a distant tree in that field, I wondered. Looking up, two hawks circled over my head, lofty-winged and majestic, gliding through the air with the chaotic harmony of flight. They circled lower and lower, before one swooped down and passed feet above my head. What did he think of me? A meal? Just another animal? I closed my eyes and sat crossed legged to meditate on that spot, hear the inner mumblings of my person which are so often shut down and ignored in the rational society of today. This was just one moment of wonder and discovery which nature has provided me with, teaching me above all humility. Within any square foot, I can observe an infinite amount of things – pine needles, cones, dirt, decomposing leaves, twigs, rocks – just as I can do some on a larger scale. Sitting on my favorite rock of Sun Mountain, perched close below the summit on the west face, I can see my school, buildings no bigger than the nail on my pinky finger. The horizon is the Jemez Mountains, where I have spent days exploring slot canyons, hiking along rivers, and soaking in hot springs, all vivid memories in my mind and important to me yet from this place invisible. I see the city of Santa Fe, each individual house the dwelling of an individual, each with his or her own story, life views, perceptions, noble actions and inner evils. Just as there is an endless amount I can study in a square foot, so is there the same amount I can see looking over an entire city. The scale can quickly recede. I go from a single grain of dust at my feet, to the rock resting atop it, to the larger rock I’m sitting on, to the larger rock which is this mountain, to the city of Santa Fe, to the state of New Mexico, country of United Sates of America, American continent, planet (merely another large rock,) Milky Way, solar system, to that incomprehensible thing called the universe. How many others at this moment share my thoughts? Others in this state? On this planet? In our universe? In others? With such thoughts, comes a humility. I am small. This world is, on a cosmic scale, small. The problems and worries of the day are truly nothing.
Area Between Sun and Moon Mountain
I have come to what is quite possibly the most beautiful place that ever was. The sun shines hot around me, but I’ve found the shade of a ponderosa, the only of its kind among hundreds of piñons, its vanilla scented bark wafting through the air on a cool, whispering mountain breeze. My companions are the birds, piñon jays, squawking in contempt, and broad-winged crows soaring high in the palette blue sky – black against the pure, celestial blue. My rock is flat and covered with lichen, clinging to an existence on this granite stone, nourished by sun and rock – no more and no less. Why are humans fascinated by such a phenomenon? Why shouldn’t the lichen subsist on merely heavenly rays and granite? Because our species cannot? We come from the same explosion of life as the lichen – pale green, gray, cracking and dry. We are relatives. The songs and calls of birds give me confidence in nature’s longevity, just as the lichen-mottled rock does, the yucca which has spring forth from dry, powdery, dusty ground.
These things are miracles just as I myself am. My existence is no more than a combination of chemicals, healthy parents, all my ancestors having survived – none of them having succumbed to disease, drowning, or warfare – the age old plague of mankind. All the way back to Sumeria – and further to some archaic African valley –my ancestors have lived and given me life. Perhaps more of a miracle than the desert moss. Yet it has whittled survival to the barest essentials while here I sit, clothed and wearing shoes, immunized against disease, writing on paper processed and created in a factory, cell phone resting on this ancient rock upon which I sit.
A brilliant, royally azure jay scampers through the branches of my shady sentinel. We exchanged glances, two life forms on one planet floating through space, and he flew off to continue his existence. I hear a pecker tapping at the ponderosa’s bark. Perhaps he too is enticed by its sweet smell. Oden’s crows are circling overhead, stoic above the constant screeching of the jays. Here some desert grasses are growing through a crack between rocks, the blade’s bases holding onto the last exuberance of green – life – which has long faded from the desiccated tops. Behind me are two mountains named by man Sun and Moon – mountains I’ve climbed innumerable times with shameless comraddes to discuss “the inexhaustible variety of life.” Some men have chosen to build their dwellings at the base of these hills, erect property fences. I surely trespassed someone’s land to arrive upon this spot, and my heart aches with the thought of a proprietor persecuting me for seeking peace in the hills – Moon Mountain belongs to no man.
The city stretches before me, dotted with juniper and piñon, before deferring to a brown sea of dead grasses, its shores lapping up on the bases of the Cerrillos Hills, and the distant misty blue megalith of Sandia. When will man next sit upon this spot and have these thoughts? Or has it already been, some barefoot Indian come to this flat rock to wonder about his place in Nature, which is naught but everything. I come to the woods to see how the Earth truly is, to escape the new wilderness – the concrete jungle – which a certain animal species chanced to transform it into. These gray and decomposing needles at my feet are the Earth. They will soon – incredibly soon on a cosmic scale – be reduced to nothing more than those basic elemental atoms which have always been, particles of which everything is and always will be constructed. There is naught in this universe that at one time was not part of a single particle – a particle surrounded by nothing yet containing all within its infinitesimally incomprehensible dimension. The sun is now shaded behind a cloud, and I must go.
These things are miracles just as I myself am. My existence is no more than a combination of chemicals, healthy parents, all my ancestors having survived – none of them having succumbed to disease, drowning, or warfare – the age old plague of mankind. All the way back to Sumeria – and further to some archaic African valley –my ancestors have lived and given me life. Perhaps more of a miracle than the desert moss. Yet it has whittled survival to the barest essentials while here I sit, clothed and wearing shoes, immunized against disease, writing on paper processed and created in a factory, cell phone resting on this ancient rock upon which I sit.
A brilliant, royally azure jay scampers through the branches of my shady sentinel. We exchanged glances, two life forms on one planet floating through space, and he flew off to continue his existence. I hear a pecker tapping at the ponderosa’s bark. Perhaps he too is enticed by its sweet smell. Oden’s crows are circling overhead, stoic above the constant screeching of the jays. Here some desert grasses are growing through a crack between rocks, the blade’s bases holding onto the last exuberance of green – life – which has long faded from the desiccated tops. Behind me are two mountains named by man Sun and Moon – mountains I’ve climbed innumerable times with shameless comraddes to discuss “the inexhaustible variety of life.” Some men have chosen to build their dwellings at the base of these hills, erect property fences. I surely trespassed someone’s land to arrive upon this spot, and my heart aches with the thought of a proprietor persecuting me for seeking peace in the hills – Moon Mountain belongs to no man.
The city stretches before me, dotted with juniper and piñon, before deferring to a brown sea of dead grasses, its shores lapping up on the bases of the Cerrillos Hills, and the distant misty blue megalith of Sandia. When will man next sit upon this spot and have these thoughts? Or has it already been, some barefoot Indian come to this flat rock to wonder about his place in Nature, which is naught but everything. I come to the woods to see how the Earth truly is, to escape the new wilderness – the concrete jungle – which a certain animal species chanced to transform it into. These gray and decomposing needles at my feet are the Earth. They will soon – incredibly soon on a cosmic scale – be reduced to nothing more than those basic elemental atoms which have always been, particles of which everything is and always will be constructed. There is naught in this universe that at one time was not part of a single particle – a particle surrounded by nothing yet containing all within its infinitesimally incomprehensible dimension. The sun is now shaded behind a cloud, and I must go.
La Cieneguilla
The rock on which I sit was worn down by the centuries, smoothed and shaped by the men who dwelled here eons before I have. Sacred images are carved into the rock, the only physical trace of Ancestral Puebloans on this spot. A horned serpent curved up the rock, body twisting and kinking to its horned head, each protrusion aligned on either side of a natural hole in the rock, an air pocket in lava, which in times unfathomable shot steaming and hissing out of a volcano – Tetilla Peak, which looms before me hauntingly in the distance, a landmark for travelers on the Camino Real in days when this land fell under Mexican control.
But, first came the Spanish in heavy armor and pomp, landed on distant shores, in unknown lands with men who were different, so utterly different that one assumed the other not man – not the same plane of existence as him.
The Kokopelli abounds here, sending echoes of the past through the wind, blown through his flute. He enchants from all angles with a hunched back, a trickster. From where did this image arise – flute god with horns and a corporeal form certainly not human. If, as those early philosophers pondered, God had not created man in his image, but man created his gods in man’s image, where do these conceptions of such unique beings arise from, and to be found in such a plethora of locations? There is so much we do not and cannot know. Animals – what separates those from man, merely an animal species – inspire these glyphs. Or extraterrestrials, as described in so many native legends.
Who sat on this rock before me? Whose rear helped shape this seat – wore down the ancient rock. Over the millennia this spot has been sacred, some native of this land spent hours carving petroglyphs into the rock from the spot where I sit.
What was the purpose of these symbols? Clearly religious, spiritual, connected to that part of pre-Columbian life so rarely acknowledged in this day. Ceremonial? Graffiti? Places to come and think, as I have?
The temporary green plains of July’s rain have come about so quick. Even if in two months time they shrivel, dry and die, the Kokopelli with his flute will still fill the air with chanting melodies so strong – but only if you truly listen. The land is dry, brown, and dull – many the beauty cannot see. Yet so much life is upon the rocks: pictures, carvings, lime green moss, and bright yellow lichen that life’s iron will cannot lend a hand to fade.
Ode to Dietrich
Ode to Dietrich
If all the world were Dietrich
And stopped to hold the door,
If all the world were Dietrich
We’d bring an end to war.
If it were common sense to all
To stand a league away,
When others spoke of personal things,
Why, that would be the day!
If all the world would work the lights
Without a sense of pride,
Nor seek glorification for
His works, but rather hide
In confident humility,
Enlightenment would flow,
Throughout this crazy world of ours,
The tropics to the snow.
“If you are doing something right,
No one will ever know.”
The truth contained within these words,
If only it could grow!
If all could take a test in math,
As I did this year past,
And never need a binder there –
We never even asked.
For Dietrich trusted me
And I trusted in him,
It fills me up with glee,
Oh! Right up to the brim
To think of my enlightened friend
Who’d never tell a lie,
Who rides his bike to school each day
While others sit and cry
About the planet growing warm
While driving in a car.
Well, Dietrich pedals every day,
Steadfast as a star
That hangs among the multitude
Each with a sparkly glow,
But his need not shine outwardly,
The brilliance is below
And underneath the outer layer
Like all the wisest men.
So here’s for my friend Dietrich, he
For whom I say Amen!
Lines Composed on my 18th Birthday, After reading T.S. Eliot
“To be conscious is not to be in time,”
Although it may not seem this way at first
Because of habits we have made throughout
Our lives, so overcome with hate and thirst.
But! There is not a difference ‘tween the two,
The clinging and the Buddha’s state of mind,
Just think on this while taking in the view
From some high mountain man will never find.
The trees and dirt,
Will never hurt,
Because they are enlightened, too
They sit and be,
So calm and free,
So why not you and me?
Although it may not seem this way at first
Because of habits we have made throughout
Our lives, so overcome with hate and thirst.
But! There is not a difference ‘tween the two,
The clinging and the Buddha’s state of mind,
Just think on this while taking in the view
From some high mountain man will never find.
The trees and dirt,
Will never hurt,
Because they are enlightened, too
They sit and be,
So calm and free,
So why not you and me?
Acequia 9-29
Acequia 9-29
The fall is young, and leaves are yet to fall
From these green aspens quivering overhead.
All autumns colors have been in withdrawal
But soon will form a multi-colored bed
On which to lay and think about the day
Delighting in October’s balmy breeze,
Rejoicing in a grove so far away
And catching yellow remnants of the trees.
They’ll soon be nothing; dirt along the side
Of this secluded, still acequia.
And in that dirt, they’ll settle down and hide
Until the spring bird flutters down to wake them.
But as I sit here summer’s colors still
Are prominent in covering the hills.
The fall is young, and leaves are yet to fall
From these green aspens quivering overhead.
All autumns colors have been in withdrawal
But soon will form a multi-colored bed
On which to lay and think about the day
Delighting in October’s balmy breeze,
Rejoicing in a grove so far away
And catching yellow remnants of the trees.
They’ll soon be nothing; dirt along the side
Of this secluded, still acequia.
And in that dirt, they’ll settle down and hide
Until the spring bird flutters down to wake them.
But as I sit here summer’s colors still
Are prominent in covering the hills.
Song for Kalu
The warmth of Kalu’s hug
Before rolling up a rug,
Will never be too distant from my heart.
Because it’s there inside,
And doesn’t like to hide,
But rather spreads to each and every part.
If you can be yourself,
And keep the mental health,
Then you have met the dharma, my dear friends.
And you can be at home,
While rambling all alone,
Among the aspens, meadows, streams and glens.
Don’t believe too much,
Or use dharma as a crutch,
But practice every moment that you live.
The bodhisattvas sing
About every little thing
And moment of compassion on this earth.
The leaves tremble in the wind,
As if Kalu had just grinned,
And spread his bodhichitta through the hills.
I love every little leaf,
And it is my firm belief,
That each will tumble down onto the ground.
And millions of them are,
Falling softly, oh so far
From any place that man will ever go.
But falling none the less,
And none of them is best,
Soon all will fade to wrinkly, crumpled grey
They are my precious friends,
And I want to make amends,
For any harm I’ve caused throughout my life.
The water tumbles down,
And never starts to frown,
So why, then, you and I?
The trees are sitting still
Without exerting will,
Why then is it so hard for us to try?
The fish are in the stream,
Which to us is like a dream
Because we do not dwell within its flow.
Like tiny grains of sand
Which funnel through my hand
I’m sad to say the time has come to go.
A small grassy area along Big Tesuque Creek
A small grassy area along Big Tesuque Creek, S branch, which I have not yet explored.
Every sentient being is my friend.
Elusive! is the feeling of the fall
To write in words
Or say in speech
Although it is most glorious of all.
The Library of Babel must contain
Within its vast expanse,
Like never ending chants,
The feeling of the autumn breeze
And leaves maturing on the trees.
The sun is warm upon my back
Like never-ending, ceaseless black
From high above, come tumbling down
All the stars, onto the town.
‘Cus Earth is just a rock floating through space,
And I, a very small part of its face.
So float and tumble on!
I’ll miss you when I’m gone!
Oh! Big Tesuque in the morning dawn!
Every sentient being is my friend.
Elusive! is the feeling of the fall
To write in words
Or say in speech
Although it is most glorious of all.
The Library of Babel must contain
Within its vast expanse,
Like never ending chants,
The feeling of the autumn breeze
And leaves maturing on the trees.
The sun is warm upon my back
Like never-ending, ceaseless black
From high above, come tumbling down
All the stars, onto the town.
‘Cus Earth is just a rock floating through space,
And I, a very small part of its face.
So float and tumble on!
I’ll miss you when I’m gone!
Oh! Big Tesuque in the morning dawn!
Love Sonnetts Written in Fall
I.
It seems to me the mystery of love,
Of all the many trials in this life
Sent down to test us humans, from above
Excels in domination, breeding strife.
Today I saw a girl who had skin
That shone just like the moon, beneath her hair,
I couldn’t help myself but start to grin
And feel a fiery yearning at her stare.
To speak the words! those magic words! if I
Could only find them in my spinning head!
I know I’ll just sound foolish if I try,
and such attempts are better left unsaid.
But still, I cannot hold my tongue when she
And I walk dreamily down by the sea.
II.
But could I love her then, as I do now?
I fear that I could not, for when one finds
The object of his grueling quest, then how
Much peace will truly live inside his mind?
It cannot be! For everything grows old
And those dark eyes, which charm like an abyss
Will slip free from infatuation’s hold
Which sent me days pursuing her soft kiss.
I know this truth inside my head, but still
My heart will urge me on with gilded thoughts
Of passing love-filled nights with her, until
At last my passionate longing fades and rots.
But that allure, that never dying charm
Strikes when her fingers brush against my arm.
III.
Oh! How she tortures me! I cannot keep
My sanity when she looks in my eyes,
Nor find a bit of respite when I sleep
Beneath the autumn’s midnight azure sky.
And even when she laughs at me I feel
Accomplished, that I made that girl smile.
If I could sweep her far away with zeal
And sit alone, for just a little while!
Today I held her in my arms and felt
Her breath upon my neck, before we brushed
Our lips together, and began to melt
Into a place, where all the world hushed.
It lasted an eternity, that kiss,
That momentary taste of utter bliss.
It seems to me the mystery of love,
Of all the many trials in this life
Sent down to test us humans, from above
Excels in domination, breeding strife.
Today I saw a girl who had skin
That shone just like the moon, beneath her hair,
I couldn’t help myself but start to grin
And feel a fiery yearning at her stare.
To speak the words! those magic words! if I
Could only find them in my spinning head!
I know I’ll just sound foolish if I try,
and such attempts are better left unsaid.
But still, I cannot hold my tongue when she
And I walk dreamily down by the sea.
II.
But could I love her then, as I do now?
I fear that I could not, for when one finds
The object of his grueling quest, then how
Much peace will truly live inside his mind?
It cannot be! For everything grows old
And those dark eyes, which charm like an abyss
Will slip free from infatuation’s hold
Which sent me days pursuing her soft kiss.
I know this truth inside my head, but still
My heart will urge me on with gilded thoughts
Of passing love-filled nights with her, until
At last my passionate longing fades and rots.
But that allure, that never dying charm
Strikes when her fingers brush against my arm.
III.
Oh! How she tortures me! I cannot keep
My sanity when she looks in my eyes,
Nor find a bit of respite when I sleep
Beneath the autumn’s midnight azure sky.
And even when she laughs at me I feel
Accomplished, that I made that girl smile.
If I could sweep her far away with zeal
And sit alone, for just a little while!
Today I held her in my arms and felt
Her breath upon my neck, before we brushed
Our lips together, and began to melt
Into a place, where all the world hushed.
It lasted an eternity, that kiss,
That momentary taste of utter bliss.
9-24 Autumn
9-24
The forest is so magic in the fall.
There’s not a time that I would rather stroll
Along this high and lonely mountain pass.
The melancholy breezes in the trees
Remind me of this season’s great allure
When, starting in the valley all the trees
Begin to show and lose their falling leaves.
When golden evening light begins to play
Upon one’s face, at closing of the day,
The time of year when Keats most comes to mind,
When ‘mid the groves of aspens one does find
A golden blanket, carpeting the earth
Reminding us of what is after birth.
The skies are blue but cooled by the wind
Whose mournful feeling can be sensed in each
And every place through which I stroll and think
About the memories of this season’s last
Grand spectacle of colors, leaves, and forms
Which place me in a solitary mood;
A friend of books, telling of days of old,
Of pensive contemplation of the works,
Of Nature, and the boundless Universe.
The forest is so magic in the fall.
There’s not a time that I would rather stroll
Along this high and lonely mountain pass.
The melancholy breezes in the trees
Remind me of this season’s great allure
When, starting in the valley all the trees
Begin to show and lose their falling leaves.
When golden evening light begins to play
Upon one’s face, at closing of the day,
The time of year when Keats most comes to mind,
When ‘mid the groves of aspens one does find
A golden blanket, carpeting the earth
Reminding us of what is after birth.
The skies are blue but cooled by the wind
Whose mournful feeling can be sensed in each
And every place through which I stroll and think
About the memories of this season’s last
Grand spectacle of colors, leaves, and forms
Which place me in a solitary mood;
A friend of books, telling of days of old,
Of pensive contemplation of the works,
Of Nature, and the boundless Universe.
Spirit of Big T
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To sit and listen to the pines
And end the suffering of our minds
While hiking with the quiet creek
And looking back upon the week
Is so sublime to me.
The snow is piled fathoms deep
And all the aspens gone to sleep
The shadows of the branches play
Upon the sparkling snow today
And I am feeling free.
The city’s gone; purged from my head
When walking here my soul is fed
The soothing, perfect essence of
The blue sky, and the firs above
Who do not need a change.
The sun is glowing bright today
So kids can bundle up and play
And laugh
While I am strolling here
And feel my mind becoming clear
In this high mountain range.
1-28
Inspiration
comes in flashes,
Along with rhode island beaches, and
Moldy brown growth on the toilet,
Freshly caught fish grilled to perfection
And served with corn and squash
On paper plates;
The smell of salty air, and taste of
Eastern values thick in the mouth,
Fog horns and lightening storms,
Marshes infested with mosquitos
And dragging a boat across the freshly
Mown lawn, which smells sharp like
Recently cut grass, hands made raw
And rubbed sore by the taught rope
Used to pull it into the water among the reeds.
Sheets are thick and moist.
I’d love the smell of coffee
And fresh sage, misted in the
Morning dew, to greet me.
There’s no more pleasant way to
Greet the day than hearing the songs
Of the birds, chirping, laughing, playing,
Embodying the life and warmth of the
January sun, uncommonly strong and
Unobscured, brightening the day –
A blue sky; dead, brown fields. I’ll
Sit down in my sleeping bag and chant
OM MANI PADME HUNG in
a tune
I invented, or currently use, or comes
Through me, or whatever may be happening
There. Sip black coffee, too. A glance at the branches
Outlined against the blue sky and followed by
The piñon hills, reminds me that everything is
Perfect just the way it is.
Poetry is such a joyless form. Fruitless, rather.
I see a lot of people hearing, not listening,
Seeing, not being. I’m struck by the thunder
Bolt of taking a moment, or rather of a
Moment taking you, and feeling your existence
fully, truly:
here.
Consciousness and Self
I set out to find myself. I was driving up the mountain, experiencing what it was to be conscious, which is somewhat of a paradox I think. In order to recognize consciousness, one must be conscious. But, one can be conscious without recognizing it. For example, after I rounded Nun’s Corner and came flying down the hill, I was examining what my experience of reality consisted of. There was my vision, my nerve sensations of the autumn wind against my cheek, sound of my car rounding corners and then there was it, the indescribable sensation of being, of existing and knowing it. Often, this awareness manifests itself as a voice inside one’s head. This is certainly the case for me.
We’re never really alone. Truly, we are having more conversation inside our minds while driving alone than we would be if a friend sat in the passenger’s seat. It’s absurd. And the whole point is to realize that the voice isn’t really there. You’re making it up. But who are you?!? Don’t we usually assume the voice is one’s self? If not, what is the self, and what is the voice? There is no “self” part of the brain. All of our reasoning takes place through that voice. Or does it? In situations where we have to react quickly, there is no voice. We just do things. But when it comes to pondering over a question, the voice says “okay, let’s see here. That quiz pretty good, although it could have been better. I’m tired. Shit, last night was rough. I should have gone to sleep earlier. But the novel I’m reading is just sooo good. Dostoevsky. What is the Gambler going to do to get back at all of them? Was I good enough last week in bookclub? I feel like I’ll never break through the barrier of being a student making points to that of a teacher, or well informed college student. It’s so frustrating. When will it happen? When I am not waiting, or wanting, it to happen. Like enlightenment. Shit, my mind is wandering. Ahh shit! Self, consciousness…”
And then, once again, I get “out of my head” and realize what Mingyur Rinpoche ( a great master, who recently abandoned his monastery and took to the mountains like the great yogis of old) means by the “monkey mind.” It truly never stops. Indeed, it’s the “self” voice in my head that’s dictating what words I will type on the paper. Where do the thoughts come from, the“stream of consciousness?” I like Fred’s (my teacher at the stupa) method. When a though arises, ask yourself “where did it come from, and where does it go?” Sometimes it seems like some unknowable region inside my head, but more often than not the answer is “nowhere.” How can something come from nothing? Isn’t that one of the oldest riddles out there? It’s like spontaneous particle/anti-particle pair formation in a vacuum. But are those particles really anything? Mostly empty space.
And particles and anti-particles have mass – physical existence. What about thoughts? It’s hard to think of them any other way, since as a human I am not used to non-physical, experimental research. Truly, that’s what meditation is. It’s researching into the nature of your own mind. No one else can do it for you. No one can confirm or deny anything you “discover.” It’s very easy to trick yourself, and until you have reached a great, deep level of understanding, eliminating observational bias is next to impossible, for ultimately one must observe the observer. In other words, thoughts arise inside the mind. You, as a meditator, recognize this, and examine the thoughts (the thought itself, not its content). After a while, one gains a small, momentary understanding, or at least sensation, of some aspect of these seemingly interminable, transient thoughts. But then, what is observing the thoughts? Is there some kind of recognition that can take place beyond you, who is observing the thoughts? If so, what is it? This would be what I call unconscious recognition, much like a person pulling his finger away from a hot stove. No contemplation or recognition needed; it’s just a reaction. Likewise with observing the observer. It can be observed, but not through any active process. It’s like knowing that you’re going to win/lose the game, get the part, make her laugh. Instant, completely confident recognition which has no need of intellectualization. Deeper than the voice, and thoughts.
That’s what I was looking for. That deeper level of knowing is perfect, but almost completely blocked off as we live our everyday lives. Everything becomes over intellectualized. It’s like the difference between solving an elementary and a more complicated math problem. In solving the equation 2+2, one does not have to think before scribbling down 4. A person could go through an entire page of such simple addition problems, instinctively knowing the answers without any voices in the head or intellectualization with the end of problem solving. Present a person with a complicated derivative equation, however, and in trying to solve it the mind begins to speak. There is no instinctual, deeper complete knowing to take place. What some steps in the derivate equation may have developed into inherent knowledge, such as the derivative of cos is –sin, but the solving of the system as a whole requires intellectualization – problem solving – and a different kind of thinking is taking place than in the completion of the addition equations.
Solving an equation on a math quiz is one thing, but how can we consider these forms of thinking, or knowing, within a larger context? Why can’t all knowledge be the deeper, perfectly-instinctual kind? Would life become boring? Wouldn’t this mean the answers to everything lay waiting inside one’s mind? Perhaps they do. But what happens when this kind of knowledge proves false? Or, can we say that if something is false, it cannot, by definition, be an expression of this deeper knowing quality?
Ultimately, the problem of a voice inside one’s head is that by having endless stream of thoughts as I drive up Hyde Park Road, my reality (or at least the aspect of my reality I’m contributing the most brain power to) is happening inside my mind, and possibly not even happening at all. What then, am I doing on this earth, living the majority of my life contenting myself with an endless stream of thoughts that don’t seem to really exist? Then again, my entire experience of the universe, and “reality,” is created within my own mind. My mind makes light waves into books and computers, sound waves into fingers tapping at the keyboard, and the breeze feel cold against my skin. It’s all a product of your mind, a powerful computer. Is it ever possible to break free of this, to experience the world free from Blake’s “doors of perception?” One might say yes, the answer is drugs, but a drug is still a chemical acting on your mind, and although the experience is one of leaving the sensory and conscious experience of the mind and entering another, it is brought about by physically ingesting a substance which creates chemical reactions in your mind. The ends, in the case of experiencing a reality external from one’s mind, do not justify the means. This experience, by definition, must be brought about without altering the mind at all. This is where Buddhism explains the experience as recognizing the true nature of the mind. All you have to do is relax, and study it a little bit, and you can break free from perceiving “yourself” as separate from everything else by seeing that perceiving the world only through our own minds is nothing more than a trick we are playing on ourselves, and have been playing for a long time. And what to do when this state of enlightenment is achieved? Won’t life become boring? No, is the resounding response from Mahayana Buddhism. You spend your time helping others make this realization, seeing your silly habitual patterns acted out before your eyes by all of those who are still stuck with the thoughts and experiences imposed on them by their own minds, and being filled with such contentment from your realization that the only desire you can possibly have is to help others find it. And when all beings reach that state? Well, I have to admit I’m at a loss, at that point. We’ll see when it happens.
We’re never really alone. Truly, we are having more conversation inside our minds while driving alone than we would be if a friend sat in the passenger’s seat. It’s absurd. And the whole point is to realize that the voice isn’t really there. You’re making it up. But who are you?!? Don’t we usually assume the voice is one’s self? If not, what is the self, and what is the voice? There is no “self” part of the brain. All of our reasoning takes place through that voice. Or does it? In situations where we have to react quickly, there is no voice. We just do things. But when it comes to pondering over a question, the voice says “okay, let’s see here. That quiz pretty good, although it could have been better. I’m tired. Shit, last night was rough. I should have gone to sleep earlier. But the novel I’m reading is just sooo good. Dostoevsky. What is the Gambler going to do to get back at all of them? Was I good enough last week in bookclub? I feel like I’ll never break through the barrier of being a student making points to that of a teacher, or well informed college student. It’s so frustrating. When will it happen? When I am not waiting, or wanting, it to happen. Like enlightenment. Shit, my mind is wandering. Ahh shit! Self, consciousness…”
And then, once again, I get “out of my head” and realize what Mingyur Rinpoche ( a great master, who recently abandoned his monastery and took to the mountains like the great yogis of old) means by the “monkey mind.” It truly never stops. Indeed, it’s the “self” voice in my head that’s dictating what words I will type on the paper. Where do the thoughts come from, the“stream of consciousness?” I like Fred’s (my teacher at the stupa) method. When a though arises, ask yourself “where did it come from, and where does it go?” Sometimes it seems like some unknowable region inside my head, but more often than not the answer is “nowhere.” How can something come from nothing? Isn’t that one of the oldest riddles out there? It’s like spontaneous particle/anti-particle pair formation in a vacuum. But are those particles really anything? Mostly empty space.
And particles and anti-particles have mass – physical existence. What about thoughts? It’s hard to think of them any other way, since as a human I am not used to non-physical, experimental research. Truly, that’s what meditation is. It’s researching into the nature of your own mind. No one else can do it for you. No one can confirm or deny anything you “discover.” It’s very easy to trick yourself, and until you have reached a great, deep level of understanding, eliminating observational bias is next to impossible, for ultimately one must observe the observer. In other words, thoughts arise inside the mind. You, as a meditator, recognize this, and examine the thoughts (the thought itself, not its content). After a while, one gains a small, momentary understanding, or at least sensation, of some aspect of these seemingly interminable, transient thoughts. But then, what is observing the thoughts? Is there some kind of recognition that can take place beyond you, who is observing the thoughts? If so, what is it? This would be what I call unconscious recognition, much like a person pulling his finger away from a hot stove. No contemplation or recognition needed; it’s just a reaction. Likewise with observing the observer. It can be observed, but not through any active process. It’s like knowing that you’re going to win/lose the game, get the part, make her laugh. Instant, completely confident recognition which has no need of intellectualization. Deeper than the voice, and thoughts.
That’s what I was looking for. That deeper level of knowing is perfect, but almost completely blocked off as we live our everyday lives. Everything becomes over intellectualized. It’s like the difference between solving an elementary and a more complicated math problem. In solving the equation 2+2, one does not have to think before scribbling down 4. A person could go through an entire page of such simple addition problems, instinctively knowing the answers without any voices in the head or intellectualization with the end of problem solving. Present a person with a complicated derivative equation, however, and in trying to solve it the mind begins to speak. There is no instinctual, deeper complete knowing to take place. What some steps in the derivate equation may have developed into inherent knowledge, such as the derivative of cos is –sin, but the solving of the system as a whole requires intellectualization – problem solving – and a different kind of thinking is taking place than in the completion of the addition equations.
Solving an equation on a math quiz is one thing, but how can we consider these forms of thinking, or knowing, within a larger context? Why can’t all knowledge be the deeper, perfectly-instinctual kind? Would life become boring? Wouldn’t this mean the answers to everything lay waiting inside one’s mind? Perhaps they do. But what happens when this kind of knowledge proves false? Or, can we say that if something is false, it cannot, by definition, be an expression of this deeper knowing quality?
Ultimately, the problem of a voice inside one’s head is that by having endless stream of thoughts as I drive up Hyde Park Road, my reality (or at least the aspect of my reality I’m contributing the most brain power to) is happening inside my mind, and possibly not even happening at all. What then, am I doing on this earth, living the majority of my life contenting myself with an endless stream of thoughts that don’t seem to really exist? Then again, my entire experience of the universe, and “reality,” is created within my own mind. My mind makes light waves into books and computers, sound waves into fingers tapping at the keyboard, and the breeze feel cold against my skin. It’s all a product of your mind, a powerful computer. Is it ever possible to break free of this, to experience the world free from Blake’s “doors of perception?” One might say yes, the answer is drugs, but a drug is still a chemical acting on your mind, and although the experience is one of leaving the sensory and conscious experience of the mind and entering another, it is brought about by physically ingesting a substance which creates chemical reactions in your mind. The ends, in the case of experiencing a reality external from one’s mind, do not justify the means. This experience, by definition, must be brought about without altering the mind at all. This is where Buddhism explains the experience as recognizing the true nature of the mind. All you have to do is relax, and study it a little bit, and you can break free from perceiving “yourself” as separate from everything else by seeing that perceiving the world only through our own minds is nothing more than a trick we are playing on ourselves, and have been playing for a long time. And what to do when this state of enlightenment is achieved? Won’t life become boring? No, is the resounding response from Mahayana Buddhism. You spend your time helping others make this realization, seeing your silly habitual patterns acted out before your eyes by all of those who are still stuck with the thoughts and experiences imposed on them by their own minds, and being filled with such contentment from your realization that the only desire you can possibly have is to help others find it. And when all beings reach that state? Well, I have to admit I’m at a loss, at that point. We’ll see when it happens.
Behaving correctly in situations
A seemingly “positive” action which causes a negative effect is not positive, and vice versa. We must be careful with the implications of our actions. Even if we are operating from a position of non-dualism and clear-mindedness, it is easy to hurt others who are not experiencing life in this way. So, it is best to see the ultimate reality of every situation, and the reality as it appears to others. We must share love from our hearts, along with what we believe to be true, while not forcing. It is never good to force. To do so is like ploughing the ocean, as Simón Bolivar so eloquently put it. This is true both in physical and non-physical matters, from lifting exercises to interactions with members of the opposite sex. Always better to act in accordance with the natural flow of things than to stress, to try too hard. We feel intuition for a reason. One can easily sense when a date is going wrong. Likewise, if one cannot perform a physical action, such as sitting for a long period, to force oneself to do so is foolish. There is no correct meditation posture. One should feel like a mountain, grounded yet alert, and do so in a way that compliments his or her own physical capabilities. From posture, the body, we move on to the mental realm. One should never force a meditation, or practice, or a belief upon himself. This is totally against the point. The point is to feel loving kindness, relaxation, spaciousness, understanding, and wisdom within oneself. If the practice does not provide this after you have thoroughly investigated it, it should be discarded and a new practice sought. Tradition is important because it provides the example of many others who have achieved levels of understanding superior to ours, but one should seek out practices and traditions that resonate with him. External substances and situations can provide temporary, fleeting moments and tastes of ecstasy and bliss, but the true happiness always comes from inside – these people, places, drinks, etc only bring it out.
Samsara
In Buddhist philosophy, the world of suffering in which we live, referred to as samsara, is divided into six realms. The specific realm into which a being is reborn depends on its actions in its previous life. In this way, each of the six realms is characterized by a certain type of being – from gods to humans to animals – that exemplifies a specific negative emotional state. In my experience, I have heard teachers who state that these realms are real, and that descriptions of beings in each are to be taken literally. There are others who find the descriptions of each realm’s beings merely metaphors for the negative emotional state that characterize that plane of existence. At this stage in my life and practice, I have found the latter interpretation most believable and useful in understanding the concept of samsara.
In the meditation of Chenrezi, the bodhisattva of compassion (called Avalokitesvara in Sanskirt, which is a fantastic word to say out loud once one becomes comfortable with the pronunciation), the meditator prays that all the beings in each of the six realms may be freed from their specific form of suffering. This is accompanied by chanting and singing the six-syllable mantra Om Mani Padme Hung. Chenrezi meditation is the primary practice at the stupa (Tibetan Buddhist temple) I attend, and I usually chant it at least once a week. The stupa – a beautiful white temple with gold spire rising from the top whose proportions contain secret teachings about the stages of the path to enlightenment – is situated along the low-income housing and next to a McDonalds on Airport Road and is an immediate shock to anyone driving down Airport. Kalu Rinpoche, the Tibetan master who founded the stupa on Airport Road, held Chenrezi meditation in the highest regard, and established it as the main practice at the center, stating that “Chenrezig meditation is uncommon both in the ease of its performance and the blessing that it bestows” (Rinpoche para 1). My favorite part of the practice is a section in which we examine, one by one, all the six realms of samsara and pray for the beings suffering in each of them to become free.
Along with the beautiful rhythm and tune in which we chant this section, I also appreciate the opportunity it provides for self reflection. As I sing Om Mani Padme Hung for the beings of each of the six realms, I always take a moment to examine myself and determine in what ways I have perpetuated the different negative emotional states of the six realms within my own life. What follows in a short description of each realm, a recognition of its pertinence to my life, and, finally, a prayer that I and all beings might be freed from that specific form of suffering.
The highest realm, although not the most advantageous for the attainment of enlightenment, is the Deva Realm, also known as the God Realm, Blissful State, or deva-gati in Sanskrit. In this realm, mighty, powerful gods live in great luxury and pleasure without much suffering. Devas’ lives are so comfortable that they become complacent and feel no need to study dharma (the teachings of the Buddha that will lead one to Enlightenment). In this way, by the end of their enormously long lifetimes, the devas are shocked to suffer great pain and decay for the first time in their lives.
The negative emotional state associated with this realm is pride. The devas become overly filled with pride for being gods, living lavish lives, and ruling celestial kingdoms. Then, at the end of their long lives, they experience decay, which is all the worse, since their pride at one point had been so great.
Pride is a part of my life in many ways. I received the highest grade I’ve ever received on a physics tests on our most recent assessment, and I was immediately filled with the desire to ask my friends what they received, eager to flaunt my achievement. I was recognized at assembly for being named a National Merit Finalist, and I loved the attention as everyone clapped for me. Lamentably, I felt superior to my classmates at that moment, because I had managed to fill in more “correct” circles with my #2 pencil than they had. I wrote ninety percent of the lyrics of the song Joey and I sang at assembly, and felt hurt when people congratulated him for writing the song. And, I received a lower grade than I had expected on my recent Honors History paper, a class in which I feel myself to be excelling and possessing greater knowledge and understanding of the subject area than my peers, which hurt my pride.
May my pride be transformed into the wisdom of Chenrezi.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
The next realm in the asura-gati, or Realm of the Demigods. In this state of existence, the asuras are constantly at war with one another, overcome with jealousy and envious of the devas whom they find superior to them. If a person is overly jealous in this life, he or she will be reborn in the asura-gati.
Jealousy is a part of my life as well, although on a smaller scale than pride. We watched Spartacus (one of my favorite flicks) for an Honors History movie night. I had been hoping and planning for at least a few days to sit next to a particular girl, and drive her home afterwards. Before the film started, I set my things down next to where she was sitting, and left briefly to fill my cup with water. I returned to find that another guy had moved my things away, and sat down next to her. Throughout the three hour film, I sat behind them and felt great jealousy towards the guy who had stolen my seat, and then proceeded to drive the girl home! Last week at the ARCOS show, I felt jealous that two boys from NMSA were selected to portray the lead roles and not me. And, in the basketball game against Mora, I did not get to play, a sophomore coming off the bench instead.
May my jealousy be transformed into the wisdom of Chenrezi.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
After the asura realm is the Human Realm, or manusya-gati in Sanskrit. In Buddhism, a human birth is extremely precious and is considered the most advantageous rebirth a being may have. In the human realm, one may most easily hear and study the dharma and work towards enlightenment. My guru Lama Mingma has spent hours teaching me that to be born in a time and place where the Buddha’s teachings are available, with an open mind ready to embrace the teachings, and all of one’s mental faculties, is a precious situation one should not waste. However, in the human realm, as we all know so well, the suffering of desire overtakes our minds and distract us from utilizing this great potential for awakening.
I want more sleep, I want to sit with that girl, I want to get good grades, I want people to laugh when I make bad jokes in class, I want to win basketball games, I want a new book for my Kindle, I want to be recognized for all the hard work that I do, I want my dad to loosen up a bit, I want to stay out after midnight, and so on, ad infinitum. When I don’t get these things, I become tense, angry, jealous, and other nasty things. Desire leads to the sufferings of the other realms. However, wanting to get rid of desire is itself a desire. But the Buddha knew this. The point is not to get rid of desire, but to understand it, and not get so attached to things.
May my desire be transformed into the wisdom of Chenrezi.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
Contrary to the belief of many, the Animal Realm, or Tiryagyoni-gati in Sanskrit, is below humans in the wheel of samsara. So often I’ve heard people saying that their dogs are “so enlightened,” hoping that in their next life they are reborn as a lazy dog who doesn’t have to think too much, gets to drink water and lounge in the sun. I’m not here to say these people are wrong – no need to get attached to the strict hierarchy of samsara as presented in traditional Buddhist philosophy. However, Buddhism teaches that the suffering of the animal realm is that of ignorance and stupidity, which I agree with. Animals walk off to be slaughtered without knowing it, blindly marching to their deaths. Because of this ignorance, they lack the same potential as humans to study the dharma. However, at this point it is important to mention that it is a critical teaching of Buddhism that all sentient beings (all the beings of these six realms) possess Buddha nature and the full capability to become awakened. It is one’s actions in previous lives that determine their rebirth, and beings living within each realm have varied capacities to gain wisdom and be freed from that particular realm when their life ends. But, in the end, all are primordially Buddhas.
How are stupidity and ignorance present in my life? I misplace my keys. Today, while meaning to ask my mom how much coffee was left in the coffee pot, the words “how much did it cost?” left my mouth, for the sole reason that my mind was being lazy and wandering. I logged onto my Prep e-mail twice in a row before immediately logging out, forgetting twice in a row the reason why I had logged on in the first place: to download the assignment sheet for this paper. I’m sure there are careless typos and punctuation errors in this paper that my ignorance and laziness are leading me to ignore. The suffering of the animal realm is also manifested in a terrifying habit of my generation: I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, look at what time it is, and put my phone back, only to realize I looked at the digits without registering the information, and having to pull out the phone and check again.
May my ignorance be transformed into the wisdom of Chenrezi.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
The preta-gati, or Hungry Ghost Realm, is one of my favorite realms in terms of the description of the beings who reside within it. Pretas are beings that are reborn with incredible, overwhelming thirst and hunger but mouths the size of pinholes, so that their great craving can never be fulfilled. Rebirth in the Hungry Ghost realm is caused by an excess of greed and covetousness in a past life.
In my life, I crave mountains of food after I come home from basketball practice, only to find myself completely and uncomfortably stuffed after gorging myself. When I learn a new meditation from my teacher, I inevitably want to learn other meditations, and more advanced techniques. As soon as I get one A on a physics test, I passionately crave A’s on every subsequent exam. I become frustrated with peers who take “my” ideas from class discussion and restate them in different words. I even begin to feel slightly possessive towards the University of Chicago when I hear other Prep students who are excited about the possibility of going there. And I became short tempered on Friday with a peer who found my hiking stick that I had used as a prop for my English story and was walking around the quad brandishing it as his own.
May my greed and covetousness be transformed into the wisdom of Chenrezi.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
The lowest realm of the Wheel of Samsara is the Hell Realm, or naraka-gati. Here, beings are subjected to intense experiences of heat and cold. Some beings spend eons shivering in blizzards without any means of warming themselves, and others are forced to bake under the blistering sun, yearning helplessly for the respite of a shady tree, or a cold glass of water. It is taught that the negative emotions of anger and hatred leads to rebirth in the Hell Realm.
Following my basketball team’s loss to Mora, I experienced great hate and anger towards the other players, their fans, their town, their race, their coach, and our inability to win. I screamed, fuming and ready at any moment to punch a locker, as so many of my teammates were doing. The chair in front of my computer at my dad’s house has become annoying loud and creaky whenever I make the slightest adjustment to how I am sitting, and instead of spraying it with a lubricant, I feel fury building up inside my chest, frustrated with the annoying, high pitched sound that rings out so distinctly against the silence of the rest of my house after dark. When I am having an off-day at basketball practice and Joey beats me off the dribble to the hoop three plays in a row, my body tenses up and I become angry, even though when my mind is clear, I know how much I enjoy going to practice and being challenged by my teammates. I even feel anger when I am intensely focused on writing my history paper and I hear my phone begin to vibrate. Regardless of who is calling, I find myself resentful of whoever is distracting me from my work.
May my anger and hatred be transformed into the wisdom of Chenrezi.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
Om purifies pride, the God Realm and my perceived superiority from being a National Merit Finalist. Ma purifies jealousy, the Demigod Realm and my annoyance at the guy who sat next to the girl I wanted to sit with during Spartacus. Ni purifies desire and the Human Realm, my disappointment at not getting the grades I want on history papers. Pad purifies ignorance, the Animal Realm and my absent mindedness of not registering what time it is when I look at my cell phone. Me purifies greed and the Hungry Ghost Realm, my desire for more Buddhist teachings before I have mastered, or even become very familiar, with those I have already been given. Hung purifies anger and hatred, the Hell Realm and my blind fury at my opponents on the basketball court after a tough loss.
I am working to recognize when I exhibit these negative emotional states in my life and try to avoid them. The first step is to recognize; only after recognition can one make the change.
And chanting and singing Chenrezi’s beautiful mantra – the practice that my stupa was founded upon – as I drive home from school, or stroll across the field, doesn’t hurt either.
Om Mani Padme Hung.
I love how we get so caught up
I love how we get so caught up with things; it makes life wonderfully amusing.
Why are we fearing the future? What reasonably positive output could it have to expend one’s energy in a futile and exhausting attempt to assure purely pleasure without pain in some time to come. But, the future is not there! The notion is a fraud! If I can’t see tomorrow, feel tomorrow, smell tomorrow, or know anything beyond doubt about tomorrow, it clearly doesn’t exist, aside from being a philosophical idea used in speech. It’s the same as expending energy (fretting, worrying) about the Boggie Man, which is a wonderful archetype in our culture. I’m so glad we have it. Because it’s everywhere. The future is but one example of the “Boogie Man,” who lurks in the dark corners of what we fear about ourselves, and what we can’t understand. Worrying about “success” in the future is a Boogie Man. Doing “homework” – a broad phrase to describe the infinitely varied process of typing, thinking, and writing. In a track race, knowing you will survive but being “Scared” before the race is a Boggie Man who is very fresh in my memory. When you can see that these fears are not really there, but rather neuronal gossip, it’s so liberating. And healthy. I can’t help but thinking about those who fear the future and continue to dwell upon and lament the past seem sick. Their postures are weak, faces have no sunshine (how incredibly quantitative of me) and they generally seem devoid of some fundamental liveliness. There is no true health beyond spiritual health. A clear, positive state of mind brings with it the physical energy to exercise properly and state looking lively. If I were a better writer, I’d have a better means than “lively” to describe the lack of vibrancy of a healthier individual. Again, I’m having trouble with description and the available terms, but health is something that’s seen in a person’s face, felt in his skin, heard in his laugh, or sensed in his hug. Healthcare as an industry is itself a sickness.
Why does art lose time in my life when overwhelmed with academics? Are the two incompatible? In the world view of some they are, because no one can tell you what to do in art, or whether your theory is right, or your painting is beautiful or somehow emotionally moving. Which makes the question the idea of an art school – to whose standards one must conform,
Ah. bedtime
Why are we fearing the future? What reasonably positive output could it have to expend one’s energy in a futile and exhausting attempt to assure purely pleasure without pain in some time to come. But, the future is not there! The notion is a fraud! If I can’t see tomorrow, feel tomorrow, smell tomorrow, or know anything beyond doubt about tomorrow, it clearly doesn’t exist, aside from being a philosophical idea used in speech. It’s the same as expending energy (fretting, worrying) about the Boggie Man, which is a wonderful archetype in our culture. I’m so glad we have it. Because it’s everywhere. The future is but one example of the “Boogie Man,” who lurks in the dark corners of what we fear about ourselves, and what we can’t understand. Worrying about “success” in the future is a Boogie Man. Doing “homework” – a broad phrase to describe the infinitely varied process of typing, thinking, and writing. In a track race, knowing you will survive but being “Scared” before the race is a Boggie Man who is very fresh in my memory. When you can see that these fears are not really there, but rather neuronal gossip, it’s so liberating. And healthy. I can’t help but thinking about those who fear the future and continue to dwell upon and lament the past seem sick. Their postures are weak, faces have no sunshine (how incredibly quantitative of me) and they generally seem devoid of some fundamental liveliness. There is no true health beyond spiritual health. A clear, positive state of mind brings with it the physical energy to exercise properly and state looking lively. If I were a better writer, I’d have a better means than “lively” to describe the lack of vibrancy of a healthier individual. Again, I’m having trouble with description and the available terms, but health is something that’s seen in a person’s face, felt in his skin, heard in his laugh, or sensed in his hug. Healthcare as an industry is itself a sickness.
Why does art lose time in my life when overwhelmed with academics? Are the two incompatible? In the world view of some they are, because no one can tell you what to do in art, or whether your theory is right, or your painting is beautiful or somehow emotionally moving. Which makes the question the idea of an art school – to whose standards one must conform,
Ah. bedtime
Importance of a positive attitude
When I wake up in the morning, I think of a person or situation that will motivate me throughout the day. With this special person or experience in mind, I roll out of bed. It’s very important to start your day with a clear decision. The attitude with which we will approach the day begins when we wake up in the morning. If we decide it’s going to be a bad day from the moment we wake up it will be. Similarly, if we are neutral in our feelings in the morning, the rest of the day will follow suit. It’s critical to wake up with a very clear decision – I am going to be happy today, I will make someone or many people’s days better, and try my best in each situation. It is best to make a very large, positive goal like this. The loftier your goal, promise or intention, the more successful you will be in living a happy, positive day.
I usually then proceed to do a few, easy stretches for my body. It’s important to wake up your body and your mind in the morning, so that one doesn’t enter life with a single aspect of his being left unawake – mind, body and spirit. Then, depending on your spiritual tradition, it is good to say some prayers, or if you are not religious, to acknowledge the things you appreciate in your life. In this way, one can awaken the mind by making a clear, positive decision for the day, body by doing a few easy stretches, and spirit by praying.
Then, I will send either a phone message or a personalized text to my closest friends, wishing them a happy day. This should be done out of a sincere desire for that person to have a beautiful day. It shouldn’t matter whether they reply back, or reciprocate. Charitable giving is no longer charitable when you expect something in return.
Throughout the day, it is best to find the good in every situation. I honestly believe that every person, animal, and landscape on this planet has something to teach us. Whether their lesson is a wisdom we seek to emulate, or a type of behavior that we recognize we would like to avoid, everybody is a teacher. Perhaps the most I learned about physics this year came not in the classroom, but on a hike with a friend who is a slacker in school but pursues his interest in theoretical physics on his own and has accumulated vast knowledge on the subject in this way.
It is best to try our hardest not to apply labels like “good” and “bad” as we go about our day. To think we could completely eradicate such judgments is ignorant, but if we make it a goal to look at everything objectively, our day will go much more smoothly. Often, we judge a situation before it even happens. “This class is gonna be soooo boring.” “Practice is gonna be soooo hard.” How can you know until afterwards? It is better to participate in the activity, or experience the situation, with a clear mind, and form opinions once it is over.
The development of this type of thinking has greatly influenced the person I am today. I applied to the United World Colleges last year and was not accepted. Even though attending one of these schools was my dream, I was able to let the disappointment go. What good will sorrow do us? Better to find the positive, and look at the disappointment as a test of our resolve to maintain an optimistic attitude. Things are going to happen in our lives that are outside of our control. It is up to us to decide how we respond.
One of my most important lessons in life came from my friend Maurice. He used to be homeless, living under the bridge on West Alameda, before making the decision to change his life. He is a now a life coach who speaks with students in the public schools. He taught me that happiness is a decision. As Shakespeare writes in Hamlet, “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
We create the reality we perceive. Our eyes receive light waves and our brains convert them into three dimensional images. Our ears receive sound waves and our brains convert them into sounds. But, on their most basic level, what we see and hear are just waves. Although we do not have a high enough level of awareness to consciously understand and affect how our brains do these things, we do have complete control over how we react to a situation. The things which happen throughout the day are neutral, and it is up to us as individuals to transform them into what we will. If we have this power, why not transform every situation into a positive one?
In the Buddhist tradition, it is said that becoming enlightened is nothing more than waking up to the fact that this is it – this world we are living in is heaven. There is no need to look beyond our lives towards heaven, or a better life. If that is your belief, fine, I respect that, but when will we wake up to the fact we are in heaven right now? Heaven isn’t some place you go – it’s a state of mind and way of perceiving the world.
Finally, even when you are met with negativity or hatred, it is always best to respond with love and kindness. Although not easy, taking a moment to breathe, think, and not respond to negativity with negativity will have endless positive consequences. To give an eye for an eye is so easy, and will only prolong the argument. Why not end it? Don’t take the easy road. Respond with sincere kindness, and a mental wish for that person to be freed from whatever is causing them to act in a confused, unclear, angry way. The Buddha once said that if someone sends a package and the recipient chooses not to receive it, the package is returned to the sender. Likewise, if someone sends you negativity and you choose not to accept it, there is only one place for it to go – back to the sender. Likewise, if your positive energy is not accepted by a person, it goes back to you, the sender!
So it is always best to be positive in life.
All the best.
I usually then proceed to do a few, easy stretches for my body. It’s important to wake up your body and your mind in the morning, so that one doesn’t enter life with a single aspect of his being left unawake – mind, body and spirit. Then, depending on your spiritual tradition, it is good to say some prayers, or if you are not religious, to acknowledge the things you appreciate in your life. In this way, one can awaken the mind by making a clear, positive decision for the day, body by doing a few easy stretches, and spirit by praying.
Then, I will send either a phone message or a personalized text to my closest friends, wishing them a happy day. This should be done out of a sincere desire for that person to have a beautiful day. It shouldn’t matter whether they reply back, or reciprocate. Charitable giving is no longer charitable when you expect something in return.
Throughout the day, it is best to find the good in every situation. I honestly believe that every person, animal, and landscape on this planet has something to teach us. Whether their lesson is a wisdom we seek to emulate, or a type of behavior that we recognize we would like to avoid, everybody is a teacher. Perhaps the most I learned about physics this year came not in the classroom, but on a hike with a friend who is a slacker in school but pursues his interest in theoretical physics on his own and has accumulated vast knowledge on the subject in this way.
It is best to try our hardest not to apply labels like “good” and “bad” as we go about our day. To think we could completely eradicate such judgments is ignorant, but if we make it a goal to look at everything objectively, our day will go much more smoothly. Often, we judge a situation before it even happens. “This class is gonna be soooo boring.” “Practice is gonna be soooo hard.” How can you know until afterwards? It is better to participate in the activity, or experience the situation, with a clear mind, and form opinions once it is over.
The development of this type of thinking has greatly influenced the person I am today. I applied to the United World Colleges last year and was not accepted. Even though attending one of these schools was my dream, I was able to let the disappointment go. What good will sorrow do us? Better to find the positive, and look at the disappointment as a test of our resolve to maintain an optimistic attitude. Things are going to happen in our lives that are outside of our control. It is up to us to decide how we respond.
One of my most important lessons in life came from my friend Maurice. He used to be homeless, living under the bridge on West Alameda, before making the decision to change his life. He is a now a life coach who speaks with students in the public schools. He taught me that happiness is a decision. As Shakespeare writes in Hamlet, “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
We create the reality we perceive. Our eyes receive light waves and our brains convert them into three dimensional images. Our ears receive sound waves and our brains convert them into sounds. But, on their most basic level, what we see and hear are just waves. Although we do not have a high enough level of awareness to consciously understand and affect how our brains do these things, we do have complete control over how we react to a situation. The things which happen throughout the day are neutral, and it is up to us as individuals to transform them into what we will. If we have this power, why not transform every situation into a positive one?
In the Buddhist tradition, it is said that becoming enlightened is nothing more than waking up to the fact that this is it – this world we are living in is heaven. There is no need to look beyond our lives towards heaven, or a better life. If that is your belief, fine, I respect that, but when will we wake up to the fact we are in heaven right now? Heaven isn’t some place you go – it’s a state of mind and way of perceiving the world.
Finally, even when you are met with negativity or hatred, it is always best to respond with love and kindness. Although not easy, taking a moment to breathe, think, and not respond to negativity with negativity will have endless positive consequences. To give an eye for an eye is so easy, and will only prolong the argument. Why not end it? Don’t take the easy road. Respond with sincere kindness, and a mental wish for that person to be freed from whatever is causing them to act in a confused, unclear, angry way. The Buddha once said that if someone sends a package and the recipient chooses not to receive it, the package is returned to the sender. Likewise, if someone sends you negativity and you choose not to accept it, there is only one place for it to go – back to the sender. Likewise, if your positive energy is not accepted by a person, it goes back to you, the sender!
So it is always best to be positive in life.
All the best.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
11=7
My head is in a frenzy and I lie
crippled, deathly frightened in my bed
My heart is pounding like some bassy drum
And sending shockwaves pulsing through my veins.
My eyes are closed, I’ve slept for quite an hour
In much that same sad anguish you once felt
But that incessant, flat, and cursed tone
Of my phone buzzing dully ‘top some book
Is horrid! And I shake and turn away
to face my three-fold shadow on the wall
and try collecting my grief-stricken thoughts
but then again, that haunted buzzing call!
A thousand hairy bugs,
With their horrid little legs,
Do stalk about beneath skin
As they hurry in a craze.
Oh! Melancholy! Is it you, who warps my ticking mind?
To think of moments past that weren’t so proud
I now expect that same spite out of you
But Wherefore?
My brain is in a fever
I fear I cannot rest
And the red lights of the clock
In silent mocking form
Shall be my only friend throughout the night.
crippled, deathly frightened in my bed
My heart is pounding like some bassy drum
And sending shockwaves pulsing through my veins.
My eyes are closed, I’ve slept for quite an hour
In much that same sad anguish you once felt
But that incessant, flat, and cursed tone
Of my phone buzzing dully ‘top some book
Is horrid! And I shake and turn away
to face my three-fold shadow on the wall
and try collecting my grief-stricken thoughts
but then again, that haunted buzzing call!
A thousand hairy bugs,
With their horrid little legs,
Do stalk about beneath skin
As they hurry in a craze.
Oh! Melancholy! Is it you, who warps my ticking mind?
To think of moments past that weren’t so proud
I now expect that same spite out of you
But Wherefore?
My brain is in a fever
I fear I cannot rest
And the red lights of the clock
In silent mocking form
Shall be my only friend throughout the night.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I Wandered Gaily Through the Wood
I wandered gaily through the wood
And heard the chipper chirps of birds
I came to where a gravestone stood
And squinted, trying to read the words.
His years were marked, some eighty-two
“A life well lived upon this earth”
Before he lost his rosy rue
And hastened to his place of birth.
I tried imag’ning who he’d been
Whom he’d loved, what he’d made,
What thing he called his greatest sin,
The games that as a youth he played.
Why laid he were, among the roots
And needled, pine-filled floor?
Often tramped on by the boots
Which one must take off at the door.
Was this his home, this stygian lair
Where foxes roam and make their nests
The sacred realm of grizzly bear
And Mother Nature’s nourishing breasts.
The thought which then came to my head
Standing at this grave, the same
Was that there’s one part I’d not read –
The long dead, rotting corpse’s name.
I bent down at the knees so I could read
The name of him on whom the worms did feed
I read and feared that death was close behind
On seeing that the chiseled name was mine.
And heard the chipper chirps of birds
I came to where a gravestone stood
And squinted, trying to read the words.
His years were marked, some eighty-two
“A life well lived upon this earth”
Before he lost his rosy rue
And hastened to his place of birth.
I tried imag’ning who he’d been
Whom he’d loved, what he’d made,
What thing he called his greatest sin,
The games that as a youth he played.
Why laid he were, among the roots
And needled, pine-filled floor?
Often tramped on by the boots
Which one must take off at the door.
Was this his home, this stygian lair
Where foxes roam and make their nests
The sacred realm of grizzly bear
And Mother Nature’s nourishing breasts.
The thought which then came to my head
Standing at this grave, the same
Was that there’s one part I’d not read –
The long dead, rotting corpse’s name.
I bent down at the knees so I could read
The name of him on whom the worms did feed
I read and feared that death was close behind
On seeing that the chiseled name was mine.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Ages Past
I dreamt a dream of ages past
Of fearless warriors, wizards wise
When men held onto omens fast
And gods walked roads cloaked in disguise.
I stood amongst a shouting crowd
Who feared the time was coming soon
When man would take his final bow
And earth turn barren like the moon.
We ran and cried, and sought to hide
And begged the gods to let us stay
Yet one old man just laughed and sighed
While some did kill, and some did pray.
I asked him what his secret was,
How he stayed calm amid the roar,
He whispered to me o’er the buzz—
“Just watch the waves crash on the shore.
At times they’re small, and others grand
But still they roll on without end
We’re but a footprint on the sand
Vanished by the wave, my friend.”
I smiled at those words so true
And woke to feel a hope anew.
Of fearless warriors, wizards wise
When men held onto omens fast
And gods walked roads cloaked in disguise.
I stood amongst a shouting crowd
Who feared the time was coming soon
When man would take his final bow
And earth turn barren like the moon.
We ran and cried, and sought to hide
And begged the gods to let us stay
Yet one old man just laughed and sighed
While some did kill, and some did pray.
I asked him what his secret was,
How he stayed calm amid the roar,
He whispered to me o’er the buzz—
“Just watch the waves crash on the shore.
At times they’re small, and others grand
But still they roll on without end
We’re but a footprint on the sand
Vanished by the wave, my friend.”
I smiled at those words so true
And woke to feel a hope anew.
Mr. "Kerouac"
A sunlit roof, a busy road
The melancholy does forebode
For there is no companion here
To share my love, my hate, my fear.
I drink my drink, it tastes the same
The same way it did yesterday
I sit and sip, and feel no shame
And if I did, it’d go away
They know me here, and we converse
Sports and cars and news and work
Sometimes I think it’s just my curse
To drink this joe and go berserk
They pay me what they pay the rest
And once a month I pull the weeds
My brain inside is feeling stressed
But I fulfil their gard’ning needs
The people do not look my way
Though I would love to talk to them
I have met some, but they betray
I’m left alone, sad and condemned.
“The loco’s back” I hear pronounced
But they don’t think I understand
My whole existence is denounced
Before my eyes like it’s been planned.
So, I choose to write down every thought
The electronic page my friend
And this curse with which I’ve fought
At last has met its bitter end.
The melancholy does forebode
For there is no companion here
To share my love, my hate, my fear.
I drink my drink, it tastes the same
The same way it did yesterday
I sit and sip, and feel no shame
And if I did, it’d go away
They know me here, and we converse
Sports and cars and news and work
Sometimes I think it’s just my curse
To drink this joe and go berserk
They pay me what they pay the rest
And once a month I pull the weeds
My brain inside is feeling stressed
But I fulfil their gard’ning needs
The people do not look my way
Though I would love to talk to them
I have met some, but they betray
I’m left alone, sad and condemned.
“The loco’s back” I hear pronounced
But they don’t think I understand
My whole existence is denounced
Before my eyes like it’s been planned.
So, I choose to write down every thought
The electronic page my friend
And this curse with which I’ve fought
At last has met its bitter end.
I need a jacket
And I need some pants
And I need some music
So that I can dance.
I’ll take a book
So that I can learn
And share what I know
With those who yearn.
I’ll bring some boots
To support my feet
And an open mind
Towards those I might meet.
And I’ll wear a hat
To block out from my eyes
Rays from that sun
That shine down from blue skies.
Hoof prints will guide me
Up the steep incline
‘Til they give way to those
Shoes have left behind.
And up at the top
Maybe I’ll find a friend
Someone to chat with
With a hand to lend.
Or maybe just me
And the birds and the trees
With the city below
And a cool mountain breeze.
And I need some pants
And I need some music
So that I can dance.
I’ll take a book
So that I can learn
And share what I know
With those who yearn.
I’ll bring some boots
To support my feet
And an open mind
Towards those I might meet.
And I’ll wear a hat
To block out from my eyes
Rays from that sun
That shine down from blue skies.
Hoof prints will guide me
Up the steep incline
‘Til they give way to those
Shoes have left behind.
And up at the top
Maybe I’ll find a friend
Someone to chat with
With a hand to lend.
Or maybe just me
And the birds and the trees
With the city below
And a cool mountain breeze.
Rome
“The triumphal arch through which I march”
In purple robèd splendor
Shades crowds of men who cheer my name
And visions of my empire render
In my mind, the stretching lands
From grey skied British coasts
To Partian deserts, burning sands
And vassal kings who are my hosts.
All this is mine, and mine alone
Countless souls of my domain
We kill men in the name of Rome
So are the glories of my reign.
Columns of tremendous girth
Hold up marble ceilings high
Parading in triumph and mirth
I see them, slowly passing by
And think of those two awful boys
Raised by a wolf, and quarrelsome
Who were the seed of all these joys,
To think of them makes me feel glum.
For, Romulus his brother slew
For leaping ‘cross his sacred wall,
In England Hadrian’s stands anew
And this same fate I fear for all.
Is Rome eternal, as they said
When glorious Augustus reigned?
Methinks she’ll soon be good as dead,
And like that fire-bringer chained.
My name is cheered by scores of throats,
Patriots with Roman pride,
But Saturn’s sacrificial goats
Won’t save the empire, vast and wide.
I fear axe-wielding tribes of north
Will bring the empire’s ruin forth,
This laurel wreath set on my brow
Will die and fade, I do avow.
In purple robèd splendor
Shades crowds of men who cheer my name
And visions of my empire render
In my mind, the stretching lands
From grey skied British coasts
To Partian deserts, burning sands
And vassal kings who are my hosts.
All this is mine, and mine alone
Countless souls of my domain
We kill men in the name of Rome
So are the glories of my reign.
Columns of tremendous girth
Hold up marble ceilings high
Parading in triumph and mirth
I see them, slowly passing by
And think of those two awful boys
Raised by a wolf, and quarrelsome
Who were the seed of all these joys,
To think of them makes me feel glum.
For, Romulus his brother slew
For leaping ‘cross his sacred wall,
In England Hadrian’s stands anew
And this same fate I fear for all.
Is Rome eternal, as they said
When glorious Augustus reigned?
Methinks she’ll soon be good as dead,
And like that fire-bringer chained.
My name is cheered by scores of throats,
Patriots with Roman pride,
But Saturn’s sacrificial goats
Won’t save the empire, vast and wide.
I fear axe-wielding tribes of north
Will bring the empire’s ruin forth,
This laurel wreath set on my brow
Will die and fade, I do avow.
Lines Written on an embankment above the Santa Fe River
Upon hard rock, solid and firm,
Ahead of me up on that berm
There stares a face with mystic eyes
A marker of where knowledge lies
Among the stones of ancient floe
A willow lined river below
And all the things one does not know
Scratched upon that cliff.
Icicles cling to molten rock
And slowly damp the ground below
They’re bothered not by I who walk
And tredge my way on through the snow.
That pinky golden glory of
The setting, blazing sun above
Another day has met its end
But many more, I hope I’ll spend
Upon this rock, beneath this sky
With clouds of pink just passing by
One moment grand, and then a trail
Of distant vapors turning pale.
The time has come for sentinels to rest
And me with them, and know that I am blessed.
Ahead of me up on that berm
There stares a face with mystic eyes
A marker of where knowledge lies
Among the stones of ancient floe
A willow lined river below
And all the things one does not know
Scratched upon that cliff.
Icicles cling to molten rock
And slowly damp the ground below
They’re bothered not by I who walk
And tredge my way on through the snow.
That pinky golden glory of
The setting, blazing sun above
Another day has met its end
But many more, I hope I’ll spend
Upon this rock, beneath this sky
With clouds of pink just passing by
One moment grand, and then a trail
Of distant vapors turning pale.
The time has come for sentinels to rest
And me with them, and know that I am blessed.
To A Yogi on the Banks of the Ganges
“Thou by the Indian Ganges side”
Must surely be enlightened sir,
That gaze fixed strongly on the tide
With thoughts of only those things pure.
A flowing robe of folded cloth
Glowing like the setting sun
You wear, seated near bubbly froth
And watch the sacred waters run.
What eastern knowledge do you hold
In those three eyes upon your face?
Musings worth much more than gold
In thy meditative grace.
My dream is this: to with thee sit
And from this river never quit!
Must surely be enlightened sir,
That gaze fixed strongly on the tide
With thoughts of only those things pure.
A flowing robe of folded cloth
Glowing like the setting sun
You wear, seated near bubbly froth
And watch the sacred waters run.
What eastern knowledge do you hold
In those three eyes upon your face?
Musings worth much more than gold
In thy meditative grace.
My dream is this: to with thee sit
And from this river never quit!
Sometimes she’s got me spun
Into some twisted web
I want only to run
My strength slowly does ebb
And fade and drift away
Into a thick black mist
I’m held under a sway
And hope does not exist
Inside my troubled mind
Which argues back and forth
I cannot seem to find
For what it all is worth.
But when I see those cheerful eyes
And hear her voice, my sorrow dies.
Into some twisted web
I want only to run
My strength slowly does ebb
And fade and drift away
Into a thick black mist
I’m held under a sway
And hope does not exist
Inside my troubled mind
Which argues back and forth
I cannot seem to find
For what it all is worth.
But when I see those cheerful eyes
And hear her voice, my sorrow dies.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Lines Composed in Spanish Class
I started by writing my name on the page
And followed to wonder why;
So often I find my verse trapped in a cage
And I can do naught but sigh.
In compn’y of birds and of pine scented hills
My soul feels as one with all
The open blue skies and the silence that kills
Remind me that I am small.
A pencil in pocket and thoughts in my head
Beseech me to give them life
But my wooden pencil weighs much more than lead
And my soul feels naught but strife.
So, I flee to the mountain and on it I sit
For there is no need for my name to be writ.
And followed to wonder why;
So often I find my verse trapped in a cage
And I can do naught but sigh.
In compn’y of birds and of pine scented hills
My soul feels as one with all
The open blue skies and the silence that kills
Remind me that I am small.
A pencil in pocket and thoughts in my head
Beseech me to give them life
But my wooden pencil weighs much more than lead
And my soul feels naught but strife.
So, I flee to the mountain and on it I sit
For there is no need for my name to be writ.
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